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Authors: C. Dale Brittain, Brittain
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smiling. “I must apologize,
Daimbert, for bothering you yesterday. The man has returned, and I believe al my questions have been answered.”
“Wel, that’s wonderful,” I said in amazement. “But— What happened?”
“He came up to me in the cathedral after the noon service,” said Joachim. “As you can imagine, I was quite surprised.” So was I, but I almost dared be encouraged. A demon would not, I thought, enter a consecrated cathedral to talk to a bishop. “He told me he wants to be a priest.”
“A priest?” First Celia and now the Dog-Man. I tried unsuccessfuly to tel from the tiny image of Joachim's face if he actualy believed this or was only trying to persuade himself of it.
“He told me he has powers in himself he does not fuly understand, but he feels God has caled him and he wants to be trained to use those powers to help others.” I myself didn’t believe a word of it. If what I had sensed down by the docks was accurate, this man had the highly unusual combination of magical abilities and contact with the supernatural. A holy man who could heal a wounded dog, maybe. A magic-worker who had the power to fix broken toys, just possibly. But this man had, if the stories were right, begun to kil just to restore life, and he did not dare talk to a wizard.
At least Antonia was safely in Yurt. “That’s good to hear, Joachim,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say without more information. “Let me know how it al works out” As I returned to my chambers I thought that this man, whoever he was, seemed to have found the one certain way to defuse the bishop’s suspicions.
His questions might al be answered, but mine were just beginning. I found Antonia sitting in my best chair, legs straight out in front of her, poring over a book as though actualy reading it. I smiled and reached for my copy of the Diplomatica Diabolica.
Leafing through it was not encouraging. I sneezed from dust; it had been a long time since I had had this volume off the shelf. It confirmed what I already knew, that a demon in human form would not be able to wander, unsummoned, into a cathedral. But a person who had sold his soul to the devil, who was using the black arts for supernatural effects, would stil be able to do al the ordinary things, like enter churches, that the rest of us did, those of us who might wel be damned but didn’t know it yet.
The book, being written by and for wizards, did not directly address the question the bishop might have asked, whether someone who had sold his soul could stil save it by becoming a priest. But it was not encouraging. The book didn’t offer any way out at al for such a person—short perhaps (and only perhaps) of skiled negotiations by a demonology expert.
I reshelved the volume slowly, wondering if a demon would have too much sense of self-preservation to let the person who had summoned it spend time in close association with the saints who always clustered around churches. Saints, I told myself hopefuly, should be perfectly capable of returning a demon to hel al by themselves, no matter what the book said.
‘What’s this word, Wizard?” asked Antonia.
I realized with a start that she was not just pretending to read but was actualy reading Elements of Transmogrification. “It’s the Hidden Language,” I said, scooping the book from her lap and returning it to the shelf. “Your mother and I wil teach it to you when you’re older.”
She jumped down from the chair, indignant. “I was reading that! Give it back!”
“No, no. I’m sorry, Antonia, but it’s realy not suitable for you.”
Tears started from her sapphire eyes, and she stamped a foot hard on my flagstone floor. “It’s not^air! You can’t just take my book away! Where’s my mother? I want my mother!” I picked her up, trying to soothe her, but she wiggled free and began to cry in good earnest. “I was reading]”
“You’re just cranky because you didn’t have your nap,” I
Daimbert, for bothering you yesterday. The man has returned, and I believe al my questions have been answered.”
“Wel, that’s wonderful,” I said in amazement. “But— What happened?”
“He came up to me in the cathedral after the noon service,” said Joachim. “As you can imagine, I was quite surprised.” So was I, but I almost dared be encouraged. A demon would not, I thought, enter a consecrated cathedral to talk to a bishop. “He told me he wants to be a priest.”
“A priest?” First Celia and now the Dog-Man. I tried unsuccessfuly to tel from the tiny image of Joachim's face if he actualy believed this or was only trying to persuade himself of it.
“He told me he has powers in himself he does not fuly understand, but he feels God has caled him and he wants to be trained to use those powers to help others.” I myself didn’t believe a word of it. If what I had sensed down by the docks was accurate, this man had the highly unusual combination of magical abilities and contact with the supernatural. A holy man who could heal a wounded dog, maybe. A magic-worker who had the power to fix broken toys, just possibly. But this man had, if the stories were right, begun to kil just to restore life, and he did not dare talk to a wizard.
At least Antonia was safely in Yurt. “That’s good to hear, Joachim,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say without more information. “Let me know how it al works out” As I returned to my chambers I thought that this man, whoever he was, seemed to have found the one certain way to defuse the bishop’s suspicions.
His questions might al be answered, but mine were just beginning. I found Antonia sitting in my best chair, legs straight out in front of her, poring over a book as though actualy reading it. I smiled and reached for my copy of the Diplomatica Diabolica.
Leafing through it was not encouraging. I sneezed from dust; it had been a long time since I had had this volume off the shelf. It confirmed what I already knew, that a demon in human form would not be able to wander, unsummoned, into a cathedral. But a person who had sold his soul to the devil, who was using the black arts for supernatural effects, would stil be able to do al the ordinary things, like enter churches, that the rest of us did, those of us who might wel be damned but didn’t know it yet.
The book, being written by and for wizards, did not directly address the question the bishop might have asked, whether someone who had sold his soul could stil save it by becoming a priest. But it was not encouraging. The book didn’t offer any way out at al for such a person—short perhaps (and only perhaps) of skiled negotiations by a demonology expert.
I reshelved the volume slowly, wondering if a demon would have too much sense of self-preservation to let the person who had summoned it spend time in close association with the saints who always clustered around churches. Saints, I told myself hopefuly, should be perfectly capable of returning a demon to hel al by themselves, no matter what the book said.
‘What’s this word, Wizard?” asked Antonia.
I realized with a start that she was not just pretending to read but was actualy reading Elements of Transmogrification. “It’s the Hidden Language,” I said, scooping the book from her lap and returning it to the shelf. “Your mother and I wil teach it to you when you’re older.”
She jumped down from the chair, indignant. “I was reading that! Give it back!”
“No, no. I’m sorry, Antonia, but it’s realy not suitable for you.”
Tears started from her sapphire eyes, and she stamped a foot hard on my flagstone floor. “It’s not^air! You can’t just take my book away! Where’s my mother? I want my mother!” I picked her up, trying to soothe her, but she wiggled free and began to cry in good earnest. “I was reading]”
“You’re just cranky because you didn’t have your nap,” I
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